


By Your Side

by superwholockismydesign



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1266118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superwholockismydesign/pseuds/superwholockismydesign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slowly, the people closest to Sherlock are being kidnapped by Moriarty. Finally, he comes for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is an ongoing story that I'm mainly posting on ff, but decided to try my chances on this site. Stick with me for the first few chapter, its been over a year since I wrote them, and my writing has greatly improved since then :)

"Good morning, Sherlock," John sighed, walking into the sitting room with a cup of tea in his hand. He was dressed in a pea green dressing gown and had his pajamas on underneath.

He sat next to Sherlock on the sofa and curled up next to him. He rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and pulled up his knees. Sherlock wrapped his free arm around John as he read the paper. He kissed the top of John's sandy hair and mumbled a "Good morning," in return.

They sat there for a few minutes, reading about a recent murder that took place in another country. Sherlock sighed and put the paper down.

"It was the sister," he said. "Obvious. In the background of the security camera picture, you can see a shadow that's holding a..." he rambled, and after a while, John stopped listening.

He though about how lucky he was to have a boyfriend like Sherlock. He left body parts in the refrigerator, true, and conducted lethal experiments on the kitchen table, but at least he was smart, funny (when he wanted to be), had an interesting life that John shared, and, John had to admit, he was a damn good kisser.

Three years ago, Sherlock had faked his death, leaving John alone and broken. However, a few months ago, Sherlock had returned, and just a short while ago (on New Year's Eve), they had become a couple.

When Sherlock stopped talking, John announced that he would make breakfast. He made them both an omelet, then sat next to Sherlock again. He leaned against his flatmate and placed his head on Sherlock's shoulder again. Sherlock laid his head on top of John's, and they stayed like that for a long time.

After they both finished eating, Sherlock turned to John and captured his lips. John sighed in happiness- he had been hoping for this- and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. He tilted his head for the ideal kissing angle and opened his mouth, letting Sherlock's tongue find its way into John's mouth.

With a moan, John moved closer to Sherlock. He was practically sitting on top of Sherlock now, and he slid his hand through the collar of Sherlock's shirt, trailing his hands over the other man's chest.

"I love you, you know that?" John moaned as Sherlock kissed and sucked at John's neck, right where his pulse was. It was beating hard and fast.

Sherlock groaned in response and clutched at the back of John's shirt. He pulled John over him, so that the ex-army doctor was straddling the detective. He lay back against the arm of the sofa and brought his lips towards John's once again.

Half an hour later, John pulled away finally. His dressing gown was off and thrown across the room, while his pyjama shirt was half unbuttoned.

He retrieved his robe and pecked Sherlock on the cheek, before heading towards his room to change into clothes for the day.

OoOoOoO

Somewhere in the many twisted and cloudy streets of London, Greg Lestrade walked down the street, texting on his phone. Suddenly, a hand came out from the alley and grabbed his neck, pulling him into the darkened alley.


	2. Chapter 2

Yells and screams of pain echoed around an abandoned warehouse countries away from 221B. It was a dark, cold, wet place full of the terrors that should stay in nightmares.

A man lay in the center of the maze that made up the corridors of the warehouse. His ID would say his name was Greg Lestrade, although he didn't look it at the moment.

His face was swelled up and bruised, with cuts and scrapes running down his neck. His arms could tell tales of whips and burning metals. The rest of his body wasn't much better- he scarcely had the energy to breathe.

As the darkness threatened to consume him, Greg Lestrade silently prayed to any God listening.

Please... just make it stop.

OoOoOoO

Back in London, Sherlock Holmes was lying on the sofa, his hands folded beneath his chin. He was watching John clean the kitchen with a small frown upon his face. Something was wrong... he could feel it...

He jolted up as someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," Sherlock said as John emerged from the kitchen.

A man in a black suit walked in. He had dark hair that was just starting to turn grey. Sherlock quickly deduced that he was previously married, but recently divorced. The marriage was happy until just recently. He had one big dog and worked both inside and outdoors.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked sharply. John was beside Sherlock, and glanced at his partner as if to say 'Calm down, Sherlock. Let the man talk'.

"Good to see you, too. My name is Athenly Jones, detective for Scotland Yard. I'm afraid I have some bad news about my colleague, Mr. Lestrade."

"Oh, please sit down," John offered, gesturing to a chair.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. I'll get right to the point. Mr. Lestrade was walking home from work last night, apparently. Nice weather for once. He didn't arrive home, according to his wife. She informed us this morning. He has not shown up on any CCTV footage between here and his flat."

John and Sherlock stood there in front of Mr. Jones, completely surprised. Sherlock reacted first as his phone vibrated.

_I just got the news, also. I'll check my cameras. -Mycroft_

Sherlock breathed a small smile of relief before turning back to the other two. "Thank you for the visit, Mr. Jones. I hope to never see you again," Sherlock said politely with the smile he used only for the normal people.

Athenly Jones looked affronted. "I- well- Goodbye, then," he replied as Sherlock shoved out of the door.

"What was that?" John asked, pointing towards the phone.

"Mycroft. If anyone has the power to pry into every corner of the country, it's my sorry excuse for a brother," Sherlock replied snappily, before curling up on the sofa, his brain already ransacking his Mind Palace for a suspect.

John and Sherlock spent the day in 221B, waiting for more news. None came, however, until John had already gone to bed.

Sherlock got a call around midnight. Frowning at the "Blocked Number", the detective answered the call cautiously. "Hello? Who is this?"

"That... does not... matter," a familiar, tired voice replied. "I will... find you... and kill you."

Sherlock frowned deeper. "Lestrade? Is that you?"

"Greg... is my voice. I am... pointing a gun... to his head."

"What do you want?"

"You. You, Sherlock Holmes, will die." With that, Lestrade (or the person holding him captive) hung up.

Sherlock didn't tell John or the police. He didn't think it was necessary. Why scare anyone? He didn't get any calls again. Nobody mugged him on the street. Sherlock almost deleted it, but kept it incase it became useful later. Honestly, he wasn't to worried about Lestrade. Greg was a strong man.

He could last.

Right?


	3. Chapter 3

Molly Hooper had been taken.

She had been alone in her apartment, and she didn't show up for work the next day. When people called her cell and she didn't answer, some people for Bart's went over there after their shift ended. Her door was open and some blood was found on the floor. Her cat, Toby, was laying on the couch with signs of someone else's blood on his claws (none of testing came up with a match for that blood). Scotland Yard was called in, and Jones investigated. There were various signs of struggle, but no one was in the flat.

That afternoon, Jones texted Sherlock, telling him all of this information.

This all made John worry. As his boyfriend sat on the sofa, lost in the depths of his mind palace, John drank cup after cup of tea, trying to connect the dots.

Moriarty was dead. Sherlock had taken down all of the professor's web. Who did that leave?

Well, really, any criminal in London. The only problem was that all of these kidnappings seemed to be centered around Sherlock and him. Irene Adler was either in America or dead, as far as he knew, and she didn't seem the type to do all of this.

So that meant unless Moriarty came back from the dead like Sherlock, it was just a common criminal on the streets, and the connection between the two people was a coincidence.

However, Scotland Yard was starting to have suspicions. None of them fully trusted Sherlock, and it did not help that he had faked his death.

OoOoOoO

John was going through Molly's blog. she seemed kind of lonely most of the time. Molly talked a lot about her cat and 'Jim'. John silently cursed the dead man for tricking Molly in such a cruel way. She really was a sweet woman. John wished he knew her better. Maybe he would invite her over for tea if they ever found her.

When? Or if?


	4. Chapter 4

Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, walked into her boss's large office. She was holding the cup of tea he had asked for just minutes earlier. However, no one was behind the wooden desk to drink it. Instead, papers had been thrown all over the place and Mycroft was gone.

She drew in a deep breath. She was good friends with her boss, and she had never been in a situation like this before. Fighting back the panic that threatened to consume her heart, she quickly dialed 911.

Anthea was redirected to an Inspector Jones, who was working other disappearance cases.

"Hello?" he asked, "What's the emergency?"

"Um, hi, sir. I just walked into my boss' office, and he's gone. Mycroft was here just a second ago, I swear!" Anthea answered, he voice slightly shaky.

"Alright, ma'am. What was his full name?"

"Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. He works for the government..." Anthea trailed off as she heard a deep sigh come from the other end of the phone. "What? Whst is it?"

"We've been getting a lot of kidnappings lately, is all. They all seem connected to this Sherlock Holmes bloke. Besides that, there's no clues, no motives. To be honest, we just don't know what to do."

After that, they quickly wrapped up their conversation, and Jones and his men were brought in.

Mycroft's kidnapping was classified officially as connected with Lestrade's and Molly's.

OoOoOoO

Back at 221B, Sherlock was sleeping. He hadn't slept for about a week, so John made him finally lay down on the sofa and close his eyes. He had been asleep for about two hours before his phone rang.

"Hello?" Sherlock asked, his voice groggy, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. It's Jones. Did you hear about the third kidnapping?"

"What? No, I didn't. Who was it this time?"

Jones sighed. "It was... Mycroft. Sherlock, I'm going to have to-"

Sherlock, however, hung up. He lay back on the sofa and sighed deeply.

At that moment, John walked in. "What happened? I heard voices."

"Jones called," Sherlock droned in his deep voice.

John looked confused. "Why?"

"Mycroft was taken."

Realization spread over John's face. He knew Sherlock and Mycroft weren't on the best of terms, but they were still brothers who cared for each other in their weird, messed up way.

John also knew that Sherlock being Sherlock, he would try and squash all of his feelings instead of dealing with them.

OoOoOoO

Everyone at Scotland Yard was in a frenzy. Not only was one of their detectives gone, but the other disappearances seemed to leave no clues at all.

Everyone who knew about the case suspected Sherlock. The evidence- or lack thereof- seemed to point nowhere else.

No one wanted to call Sherlock in. Because of the lack of clues, they could not arrest him. The question was: why was he taking the people closest to him? None of it made any sense.

OoOoOoO

"What... do you want... from me?" Mycroft rasped out, blood trickling down his chapped lips.

He was kneeling on the ground on both of his knees. His hands were tied behind his back in chains. Already, even though he had been in that place for much less than a day, his clothes were torn and every muscle in his broken body ached.

"Oh, nothing from you," a cold, laughing voice replied. "You're just the bait." A figure stepped into the light streaming through the small window. Mycroft's eyes widened as he laid eyes on the hard, unforgiving face of James Moriarty.


	5. Chapter 5

The night after Mycroft was taken, Sherlock awoke abruptly to the sound of a loud thump and muffled scream. He jumped up and ran down the stairs, almost toppling over John. They both ran down the main stairs and into Mrs. Hudson's flat.

A small pool of blood lay on the floor and the door was wide open. Mrs. Hudson was nowhere in sight.

Sherlock immediately began to deduce the scene. He could just barely smell the sweet scent of chloroform.

Sherlock glanced over to see what John was doing. He had dipped a finger in the blood. It was obviously fresh and Mrs. Hudson's. Sherlock groaned and rushed out of the room, pinching the bridge of his nose. John trailed behind him.

How could he be so stupid? They were targeting closer and closer to home, of course they would break in. How could he have missed something so obvious? He should have kept awake, he should have been alert, he should have... should have...

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I need you to calm down." John's voice broke through Sherlock's frantic thoughts. A phone was in John's hand, and he had already called Scotland Yard.

They waited together as the police made their way over. Sherlock seemed to be freaking out more than he should be. He was breathing was faster than normal, and his eyes glistened. To John, it was a sudden reminder of the case in Baskerville.

"Sherlock, I seriously need you to stop. Breathe in and out. There we go..." John said to Sherlock, rubbing his back soothingly. He sat them down on the stairs as the adrenaline started to wear off. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against John's shoulder. The detective let out a deep sigh and wrapped his arm around John's waist.

"What's wrong, Sherlock? Why are you acting like this?" John asked, burying his nose in Sherlock's dark hair.

"This all just reminds me of the Reichenbach situation," Sherlock murmured. And it did have its parallels; everyone close to him was being threatened, and there seemed no way out.

After Sherlock 'died,' he had gone through a lot in the three years he was gone. Hunting down the best snipers in the world was not very easy.

He had gathered a notable collection of scars that he would never explain.

All of this- the kidnappings, threatenings, even the phone call- all were such a bitter reminder of Moriarty. He and John couldn't go through that again...

In a few minutes, the police had arrived and red and blue lights flashed off the surrounding buildings. Faces peered out of nearby windows, trying to get a glimpse at what was going on.

Jones approached them, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of John's relieved face.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid I'm going to have to send you and Dr. Watson away," Jones said, and John's face fell.

"Away? Why? Where?" Sherlock asked, his mind still reeling. What if the kidnapper came for him next? Or worse, John? Nothing was adding up. It had to be Moriarty, and yet it couldn't be...

Jones was now saying something about a safe house.

"...So you and Dr. Watson will be unable to be found in the event of another

kidnapping," he concluded.

John frowned deeply. "Are Sherlock and I allowed to stay in the same house?"

"Unfortunately, we are going to have to split you up, for further security."

"What? No. Nope, I'm not leaving John," Sherlock hissed icily, glaring at Jones.

"I am sorry, Mr. Holmes. I'll give you two a few moments," with that, he walked away into the crowd of frantic police officers running around.

Sherlock turned towards John, who was licking his lips nervously. "We-we'll be fine, Sherlock. A-and it won't be long before they catch this guy... " John trailed off. They wouldn't have a chance to solve the case after they were separated.

Sherlock pulled John into a tight embrace. He felt John bury his face into Sherlock's shoulder and shake with silent sobs.

When they pulled back, Sherlock brought their lips together. He moved his mouth rhythmically against John's and closed his eyes. The detective poured all of his love for John into that simple display of affection. He didn't know when he would be able to see his lover again, or what would happen while they were separated.

When they pulled back, Sherlock let out a long sigh. "I, um, I'll see you."

He could already see police officers coming over.

They were put in separate police cars. Sherlock leaned his head against the window as he watched the scenery fly by. How had all of this happened so fast?

OoOoOoO

John was walking back to his house from his weekly trip to the grocery store. Luckily, their chip and PIN machines actually work. As he walked, he noticed that all of the houses in his neighborhood looked the same. Every house had the same white fence, green lawn, and they even seemed to all have the same curtains.

Oh, how he missed the unique streets of London.

John's safe house wasn't too bad, as far as safe houses go. It looked like all of the other houses from the outside, but inside it had a state-of-the-art alarm system, steel-plated doors, and even a concrete panic room in the basement. When he was a kid obsessed with spy shows, he would have loved it.

But, however cool it might seem, living in a safe house was really boring. John wasn't allowed to go outside much, so he quickly ran out of things to distract him from the aching in his chest. He missed Sherlock so much.


	6. Chapter 6

John was incredibly bored.

He now knew why Sherlock took up shooting the wall. Anything to break this insufferable silence, to cause a bit of commotion. He had only been at the safe house about a week, but was already he would murder someone if he could get him and Sherlock back together, solving cases.

Thinking of Sherlock hurt, though. John was always expecting to turn the corner and see him there, hands folded under his chin in a thoughtful pose. He missed Sherlock with all of his heart. The thing he wanted most in this world was to return home, to 221B, and relax with his boyfriend.

OoOoOoO

Sherlock wasn't dealing with the separation well, either. He had practically snarled at a police officer who came to see if he was okay.

He and John weren't allowed to contact each other in any way. No calling, emailing, or texting. The detective hardly ate, and scarcely slept. He spent most of his time in his Mind Palace, sorting through his John files. Sherlock seemed incapable to delete anything that had to do with John. Every little thing was precious, like when they sat on the sofa kissing, or even when John badgered Sherlock to get the milk for once.

As the detective lay on his sofa day after day, he became thinner and thinner. His eyes sunk into his head and his skin became waxy after so long without eating.

OoOoOoO

About a week and a half after Sherlock and John had been moved to safe houses, Sherlock received a text from an unknown number. Deeming this a reasonable distraction, Sherlock opened it.

Inside were pictures of Lestrade, Mycroft, and Molly. Lestrade seemed to be the worst of them. All three were tied up in some sort of basement, obviously tortured and starved. Lestrade was in the most pictures, looking gruesome covered in blood and wearing the same clothes he disappeared in. At least one of his arms were broken and, judging from his posture, so were quite a few ribs.

The text also contained some words.

_Your pet Johnny is next. -JM_

Sherlock drew a sharp breath. Not John. He had to keep John safe, never let him out of his sight-

But then the detective remembered. He'd already let John out of his sight. Quickly forwarding the message to Jones, Sherlock receded back into his mind, shutting himself off from the world, ignoring the rumbling of his empty stomach.

How would the world go on if John was taken? How would Sherlock survive?

He was well and truly alone without his John.


	7. Chapter 7

As John stood at the door of his safe house, the bag of groceries dropped from his hand. All the furniture and objects in the house were strewn everywhere- books were littering the room, sofas were overturned, and the curtains were ripped.

A large man dressed all in black – including a ski mask over his face – sat calmly on an upturned table.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," the man said in a high voice. He was obviously changing how he sounded. "I have a message for you from Professor Moriarty. He says, 'I'll be seeing you soon.'"

With that, the man lunged towards John, and the doctor felt something hit his head as blackness overtook his vision.

OoOoOoO

As soon as John woke up, he called the police. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he sat down on the sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose. How had this happened? He hadn't been gone for that long, and this house was made to prevent something like this.

When the police pulled up outside, sirens blaring, John stood up, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans and walking outside to meet them.

A special team had come out, because he was under a protection program. A nice woman questioned him while the rest went over the scene with a fine-toothed comb. Then, they all walked through the house, trying to see if anything was missing. As far as John could tell, nothing was.

John was sent to another safe house as a precaution. It was in a much more rural area, and was a bigger house. It smelled of fresh paint and carpet shampoo, and looked, for all its security, like a normal house. But it wasn't home.

John felt  _terrible_. He was jumpy and didn't want to leave the house. John barely ate, and got little to no sleep. John's heart always seemed to be pounding in his ears. He couldn't stop thinking about what the man had said. Moriarty would be 'seeing him soon.' John didn't want to have to be protected, he didn't want to be kidnapped, and, most of all, he didn't want to be  _lonely_  anymore.

John sighed and laid his head in his hands, tangling his short hair through his fingers.

He'd never been so afraid in his life.


	8. Chapter 8

John awoke with a start. Examining his room, everything seemed to be fine, yet he could have sworn a noise had jolted him awake.

Deciding to investigate, John sat up and grabbed his robe. He did a quick walk around the safehouse, and noticed nothing out of place.

He returned to bedroom and, shedding his robe, laid down and tried to fall asleep again. However, as the minutes crawled by, the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to stand on end as the feeling of someone watching him intensified.

He sighed, rolled over, and turned on a lamp by his bed.

"Hello there, Doctor Watson," a deep voice drawled. John froze as he stared down the barrel of a gun. He remained frozen as the man pressed a sweet-smelling cloth to his face and his vision was overcome by darkness.

OoOoOoO

Sherlock lay curled up on the sofa, his faced pressed into the unfamiliar fabric. Breathing in the scent of cleaner and- was that a hint of blood?- Sherlock couldn't help but pity himself. He couldn't sleep, not without John's warm presence in the room above, not without John making him tea to calm his nerves after an exciting case, not without John kissing his forehead before they went to their own rooms, not without John...

A sharp, loud knock on the door woke Sherlock from his reverie. The detective rose from his position on the sofa and, with slumped shoulders and a shuffling of feet, opened the door of his safehouse, and was greeted with the stern face of Athelney Jones.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I have some news," he said, his eyes skirting around the room. Sherlock immediately knew something was wrong. The stiffness of Jones' back and the worried look in his eyes gave away his anxiety. Something had happened.

Sherlock didn't reply, but left the door open as he turned away, a reluctant invitation inside. Jones stepped into the room shut the door behind him.

"What happened," Sherlock snapped, wanting to get to the point.

"Dr. Watson... has disappeared. We're searching for him, but-"

Anger blinding him, Sherlock grabbed Jones' arms and slammed him against the nearest wall.

"I am going to find him. I will search the Earth for him. Every building, every crevice in every cave. I. Will. Find. John."


	9. Chapter 9

John awoke to pain. His head hurt, and his stomach felt like it was inside out and tied in a knot, presumably an effect of the drug. But those weren't the main source of pain.

A man towered over him, and John watched in terror as he plunged a knife into the army doctor's arm. He yelled as white-hot pain gripped his arm. Blood poured from the wound and trickled down John's arm, leaving a dark, warm trail.

"Alright, Moran. Let me have him for a bit." A voice spoke from the shadows. The figure hovering over John stepped away, and the knife was pulled from his arm. John immediately put pressure on the wound, his hand clutching his limb.

"Oh, Johnny, did that hurt? Did that bad man hurt you?" Jim Moriarty said, pouting. "Well, little dog, there's much more where that came from." With that, he grinned, his eyes cold and dead.

John was hauled up and thrown against the wall behind him. The cold rock connected with the back of John's head, and he stifled a groan as his head seemed to split in half and the world spun before his eyes. He felt hot, constricted - his limbs felt heavy and bile rose in his throat.

The man called Moran lifted John's hands up and latched them into the metal handcuffs that were attached to the wall. He did the same to John's feet. Because of the doctor's height, his arms quickly got tired of being lifted that high, and John's shoulders started aching. The cold of the stone seeped into his back and he leaned his head against the wall, trying to block out what was going on around him.

"Oh, we are going to have so much FUN!" shouted Moriarty, clapping his hands, then rubbing them together in anticipation.

OoOoOoO

All John wanted was a release.

Time seemed to stop existing. There was no day, no night- only pain. It was the worst period of John's life. Worse than when his parents threw Harry out for being a 'dirty little hag,' worse than when they died in a car crash, worse than Afghanistan.

Pain. There was constant pain.

When he wasn't being stabbed, punched, kicked, or hurt in any other way possible, John was being psychologically tortured.

Usually, the mental part was done by Moriarty himself. John would curl up into a ball in the corner of the room as Moran played with knives, brass knuckles and chains, and Moriarty would talk.

He would prod into John's past on the better days. Talk about Afghanistan, going into detail as he read reports about the attack on John's garrison. Ask how it felt to be shot in the shoulder, while Moran carved away at the already torn flesh over his collarbone.

On the worse days, Moran would hack at John for hours, until he and the torturer both were exhausted. Those days, Moriarty would approach John as he hung by shackles on his wrists, walking around him, examining every inch of his body. He would whisper in John's ear how much Sherlock hated the doctor, how he was simply a pet, an experiment. One day, he even picked up one of the knives himself and carved a line down John's face, from the left side of his forehead, over his nose, just missing his right eye, and down John's neck, ending mid-chest.

Those days, John begged for death.

But nights were the worst.

Somehow, Moriarty's men had created a drug. Every night, as John hung limp strapped to the wall, a burly man came over and injected something into his arm before carrying the doctor to his cell.

The drug would take effect. John would start hallucinating. Vividly. He would 'dream' he was back in 221B, working his day job, solving crimes at night, and loving the crazy detective with all his heart. He felt a physical ache when he was with Sherlock - a longing, desperate need.

Of course, he didn't actually dream. The drug wouldn't allow that. It deprived John of sleep in a way he had never experienced before.

He barely slept at all. And the few hours he was able to get were riddled with nightmares and screaming.

Whether that meant freedom or death, he didn't really care. His whole life revolved around pain. In the day, physical. In the night, after he had stopped the bleeding to the best of his ability, mental pain. He could almost feel himself coming apart at the seams, losing himself.

All he wanted was a release.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock sat behind a desk, cluttered with pictures of empty buildings and map with scattered red dots, in Scotland Yard. It had been about a week since John was taken, and Sherlock had barely slept or ate in that time. His skin was pale and stretched over his protruding bones. Every second was devoted to tracking down invisible trails and he faced countless dead ends.

Sherlock's phone chimed. The caller ID said he had received a text from an unknown number.

There were no words in the message. Attached was a picture, and Sherlock tapped it, hoping it wasn't what he thought it was.

After a moment of loading, the picture popped up. It looked like a jail cell, except it was much smaller and filthy. Instead of a bed, there was a lumpy, thin mat on the floor in the corner. Various stains colored the grimy walls and floor – some were colorless, indescribable, while others were a reddish-brown color, and looked alarmingly fresh. Brown water was dripping from the ceiling and seeping through the floor.

Sherlock's fingers tangled through his hair. He closed his eyes until, a few moments later, the phone chimed again.

Sherlock clenched his jaw as he forced himself to look at the next one. This time, it was a picture of John himself. He was tied up against a wall, and someone outside of the picture was holding a knife to his chest.

The third picture was of John's back, littered with purple and brown bruises and bright pink cuts, an even mixture of jagged gashes and straight, clean wounds. There were no signs of infection, which suggested they were attempting to make sure John didn't die before he was supposed to. Someone had recently carved the word 'freak' over John's shoulder blade – it was still dripping a dark liquid.

The last one was John's face. His eyes were open, but they looked… dead. As if his soul had been beaten out of him. A clean gash ran down his face.

The last text was just words.

_He was the last one. Come get your pets now, Sherlly! -JM_

Athelney burst into the room. "Sherlock? I followed that lead you for me about, and this looks promising!"

Sherlock sighed deeply, closing his eyes. He turned off his phone and stood up, ignoring how it seemed to spin around him. Forcing down the lump in his throat, he turned to face Jones.

"I'm ready."

OoOoOoO

John was being kept in Northern Ireland. Some factory had been abandoned, and Moriarty had taken it over. That night, someone had called into the police, saying they heard screaming. The report was immediately sent to Scotland Yard, where it caught Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock and a crowd from Scotland Yard had been flown in quickly. As the police car Sherlock was in drove up to the factory, SWAT arrived. Tires screeched, men in black ran behind cars, and weapons poked their noses out of every nook and cranny. As the men spoke urgently into headsets, Sherlock inhaled a deep breath and closed his eyes, preparing himself.

Sherlock stepped out of the car and into the cold.

It was about to begin.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock stood outside the abandoned warehouse in Ireland. The wind whipped his messy hair, tangling it further. The detective clenched his jaw and stared hard at the building, as if he could see through the walls if he just focused.

Jones came up behind him. "SWAT's going in first to scout out the area. I'll do the best I can to get you in right behind them, but no promises."

Sherlock gave him a tiny nod, and Jones walked away. The detective had not lifted his gaze from the old, falling apart building. Somewhere in there, John was waiting.

John.

OoOoOoO

John lay on the grimy floor, unable to move. Today was different. As he had been taken out of his cell, he had gotten a glimpse of Lestrade, who was being led down another row of empty cells. John had tried to silently catch his attention, but both of the inspector's eyes seemed swollen shut.

John squeezed his eyes shut as that day's torture began. He tried to dull his senses, to retreat into his mind and distract himself from the constant pain that wrecked his body. However, he was jolted out of his stupor when Moriarty's voice rang down on him.

"Alright, Johnny. We're doing something a bit different today," Moriarty said, smiling down at him and cleaning a knife with his shirt. "It's my turn."

John glanced in the corner where Moriarty usually sat, and saw Moran sitting there, smiling at him.

It was almost interesting to see Moriarty work. His face grew serious and calm. He was quiet, completely silent. When he got blood on himself he simply wiped it away without thought. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes. The dark brown eyes stared into John's as he cut him. He seemed to look into John's soul.

As the minutes dragged into hours, Moriarty seemed to cut every inch of his body that wasn't injured already – and some that were. John couldn't feel anything but pain – the cold floor seemed to disappear, and the stale air forced into his lungs felt like it had been replaced by pain. Simply pain. Every part of his being hurt – he ached and throbbed and drowned in his own blood.

Suddenly, it stopped.

Finally, there was a moment of peace. John's whole body stung with every pump of his heart, pushing blood through his veins, but the absence of a knife digging into him was relief. John relished it while he could, sucking in frantic gasps and letting a few pained moans escape.

Then he realized why the torture had stopped.

Drifting in through the walls, he could hear sirens. Men were yelling and car tyres were screeching. In the distance, John could hear a door slam. The sounds drew closer.

Moriarty stood up and smiled. Turning to Moran, he said, "Show time."

Moran came up to the two of them and kissed Moriarty on the cheek. "See you soon." Without glancing at John, he walked out towards the rescue team.

Moriarty grinned down at John and drew a gun from his coat.

There were a few moments of silence. The noises outside seemed to dull. John's breaths grew more even, and both men waited.

OoOoOoO

Everything had been calm. SWAT had searched every room they passed, silently going over everything with a fine tooth comb. Suddenly, a man had walked towards them. Shadows seemed to have thrown strange patterns across his face, but Sherlock quickly realized he was heavily scarred and had many tattoos. A tiger ran across his neck, its claws gripping his Adam's apple.

The man pulled out a gun from the back of his pants. He waved it towards the group of SWAT, and Sherlock.

"Go ahead, then," he taunted. "Shoot me."

With an ear-bursting noise, all the men shot him. He fell to the ground, dead, with bullet holes scattered over his whole body.

Sherlock shut his eyes. He'd seen many bodies in his career, but the adrenaline and shock of what was happening had started to get to him.

The team approached a door. It seemed to be the one Moran just came from. As Sherlock watched it, he heard a noise from inside from inside.

A gunshot.

Ignoring SWAT, Sherlock dashed forward and entered the room.

OoOoOoO

Moran was dead.

Moriarty and John had heard gunshots outside the door.

Moriarty turned towards John, gun still in hand. John lay on the floor, defenseless. He had been so close to getting out of that hell alive…Help was just outside the door...

As he watched, Moriarty grinned and pointed the gun at John. First his head, then chest, then finally settled on his leg.

John heard a loud bang that echoed off the walls and pounded through his ears. He felt a white-hot pain course through his body, starting at his leg, then pulsing through his veins. He saw blackness, and fought to hold onto consciousness.

The door banged open behind him, and there was silence for a moment.

"Moriarty," Sherlock breathed. His voice was deep and ragged, like he had just run a marathon. John breathed out a sigh of relief, then hissed as pain once again shot out from his leg. Sherlock was out of his vision over his shoulder, but John could see Moriarty out of the corner of his eye.

"Hello, Sherlock. Come to shoot me?" Moriarty asked.

John heard Sherlock hesitate, and Moriarty persisted. "Come on. I'm letting you kill me, Sherlock. I'll be out of your hair in a simple pull of the trigger."

When Sherlock still didn't respond, Moriarty continued. "Please, Sherlock. Just kill me. I don't want to be here anymore. Kill me like they killed Sebby. Please."

Still, Sherlock said nothing. John watch as Moriarty held up his own gun to his mouth.

"No!" Sherlock shouted, rushing forward. John shut his eyes just before another gunshot rang throughout the room, followed with the sound of a body hitting a stone floor.

For another moment, there was silence. John opened his eyes and let out a rasping breath. "Sh-Sherlock?" he asked quietly.

Within a moment, Sherlock was by his side. "It's alright, John. I'm okay. You're okay. Please, come on, look at me, please…"

"Sh-Sherlock," John gasped, his hand shaking as he cupped the side of Sherlock's face.

A few tears escaped from the corner of John's eye. John finally lost the last bit of his strength, and his hand fell from Sherlock's face. John allowed a small smile to creep up on his face, and the blackness finally took him over.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock sat on a hard chair in the waiting room of the hospital. He had been there for hours as the doctors performed surgery on John and now Sherlock's legs were aching from staying in the same cramped position for so long. While the hospital moved and bustled around him, Sherlock stared at the tiled floor, ignoring everyone.

Finally, a male doctor came up to him and cleared his throat. "Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock looked up at the man's face and studied it. "What happened? Is John okay?" he asked frantically.

The man sighed. "Dr. Watson has just gotten out of surgery. He's stable for the time being and expected to recover- however, he is in bad condition; he'll likely be unconscious for a few more days, weeks even, due to the trauma. You may see him, but he's likely to not respond, so don't get your hopes up."

Sherlock stood up and followed the man to a dark room. The blinds were pulled over the windows, so very little light reached Sherlock's eyes; however, his attention was immediately brought to the pale, unconscious body laying on the only bed. His right leg was in a cast, elevated above the bed. Both arms were bandaged, and cords were poking out from the blankets. A scar ran across John's face, its pinkish swelling marring the man's features. A heart monitor was in the corner, letting out an even beep… beep… beep….

Sherlock took a seat on John's left, and gently reached for his hand. It was too cold, so Sherlock cupped it between his own and simply sat there. He watched the slow rise and fall of John's chest, the little clicks of the oxygen mask assisting John's breathing in time with the heart monitor.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep…

OoOoOoO

He was drowning.

John struggled to force himself upwards, to escape, but the more he struggled, the lower he sank.

Opening his mouth and gasping, John realized that he wasn't drowning in water - no, this was far too thick, salty, warm. It was blood.

Struggling harder now, John let out a pained shout and thrashed around, trying to grab hold of something. Something was grabbing him, holding him down, preventing him from escaping - he couldn't move - he was going to die-

With a jolt, John bolted awake. He gasped in fresh air and stared at the ceiling.

After a few moments, he gathered himself and looked around the room. This wasn't his cell, he realized - he was in a bed, and his leg was in a cast. The sounds of people bustling around were coming from a closed door, and finally, John noticed the man who had been pinning him down when he had woken up.

"Sherlock," John breathed. John tried to move towards him, but found he couldn't- his limbs were immobilized, wrapped up and seemingly pinned down. Something covered his face, pushing air into his mouth, and John's mind went immediately to poison gas. Were they done with him, now trying to kill him off? Trying to move again, he attempted sitting, but fell back down on the bed, hissing in pain and holding his stomach.

"Shh, don't move too much, John. It's okay. We're going to be okay," Sherlock said, smiling at John and taking the mask off of his face.

John screwed his eyes shut and let out a breath. It suddenly all came back to him - the gunshots, Moriarty begging, and Sherlock killing-

Sherlock killed Moriarty.

"M-Moriarty... You?" John asked unsteadily. He studied Sherlock more closely, taking in the bruised and tired eyes, rumpled clothes the and look of desperation on his face.

"Yes. He's.. Dead, yes. I... shot him," Sherlock replied, shuffling closer to John and looking down. "John, I'm sorry, this was all my f-"

"Come here, you bloody bastard," John grumbled, and Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him. It was messy, with John barely able to move and Sherlock leaning over the bar on the bed, but they took what they could. They poured all of their feelings and worries into the connection between them. John felt Sherlock lift his hand to his face, and the doctor relaxed into the touch.

After a few moments, they pulled away. John breathed a sigh of relief and stared at Sherlock, as if taking his eyes off of him would mean the end of the world.

Sherlock took John's hand in his again and smiled. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you, too," John whispered, before falling back asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

John had been asleep for so long.

After that brief period of consciousness, he had fallen back into a deep sleep. That was days ago.

Sherlock spent most of his time in a sort of trance, not even disturbed by the hourly checks of nurses, and left John's side only for the occasional meal and bathroom break.

The doctors had been cryptic when they described John's condition to Sherlock. From what he could deduce, John had bruises and cuts all over his body, but the word 'FREAK' on his back would cause a lot of trouble - it was in a position where any arm movement would be extremely painful for John, made worse by the fact that one of John's arms was in a sling; his other arm was heavily bandaged. The scars on his face weren't expected to disappear. A section of skin had been peeled off John's stomach, making the area likely to develop an infection. However, John's leg wound was the worst. The bullet from Moriarty's gun had gone straight through the muscle, splitting the bone and causing an open fracture. Sherlock had deduced that this meant John would have trouble walking for the rest of his life, and physical therapy for about a year. They had aligned the fractures with a plate and screws to prevent the bone pieces from splintering off.

John was dehydrated and worryingly underweight. He was lost in a never ending spiderweb of tubes and cords.

Sherlock sat in the hard chair, massaging his temples with his hands. He had a massive headache, every bleep of the heart monitor and faint voice from outside the closed door causing a spike of pain to shoot through his head anew.

Sherlock hissed as someone knocked on the heavy wooden door. "Come in," he murmured, not bothering to look up.

"Sherlock, thank god." The detective looked up to see Lestrade's lean frame taking up the doorway. Sherlock stood, and Lestrade rushed forward to envelope Sherlock in a tight hug.

"Lestrade, I- You-" Sherlock gasped, attempting to escape the man's grip. "You're okay!" Sherlock finally breathed, pulling away.

Lestrade grinned, and stepped aside. There stood Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. "Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson murmured, stepping up to him. "You're alright, dear, I was so worried-"

"Did they do anything to you?" interrupted Sherlock, examining her face.

"No, I'm fine. They barely touched me. John, though." She turned to look at the bed. "Oh, my poor boy."

"What've they said?" Molly asked, stepping into the room. "Oh, he looks... bad. I've seen dead people look bet- sorry." She stopped examining John and instead turned to Sherlock. "You don't look too good either, Sherlock. Are you doing okay?"

"Yes, I'm... I'm fine," Sherlock insisted. Lestrade, who had been looking over the clipboard at the end of John's bed, turned to them.

"You should go find a hotel, Sherlock. Take a shower, get some rest. We can stay with John," Lestrade said, giving him a look. Sherlock shook his head and insisted he should stay.

"Hello, brother dear. How have you been?" Mycroft cut in.

"Fine," Sherlock shot at him. Mycroft was wearing a sling and sporting a black eye. He favoured one leg, as if one of his ankles were sprained and he looked remarkably thinner and paler. "I see you finally lost that weight."

"Sherlock, can I talk to you in the hall?" Lestrade asked, pulling Sherlock by the arm.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Lestrade said, "Alright, tell me the truth. Are you back on drugs?"

"What? No! Of course not!"

"Sure. You look the same as when I found you in that alley years ago. So either it's drugs and I have to hand you over to your brother, or you need sleep."

Sherlock finally looked over Lestrade's injuries. He had dark circles around his eyes - from both bruises and lack of sleep - and cuts up his arms, easy to see on the parts of his arms that weren't covered by the hospital robe.

"You look like you could do with some yourself, Fred."

"Greg," Lestrade corrected. "And yes, I could. But you look worse than I do. Just go to a hotel, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed and looked back towards the wooden door. "I can't. I want to be here when he wakes up again. I know he's going to blame me for all of this, and-"

"Sherlock, he won't blame you. He knew what he was getting into when he became friends with you. Why do you think he didn't leave you after you had pretended to be dead? Those were the worst years of his life, and he still stuck around. Now, stop beating yourself up and go home," Lestrade finished, slapping Sherlock on the back as he reentered John's room.

Sherlock stood outside for a moment, leaning against the wall and rubbing his temples again. He rolled over his options in his head, trying to decide if he should sleep in a comfortable, warm hotel bed or on the hard chairs in the hospital.

Coming to a conclusion, Sherlock walked back into the room and sat down. Looking Lestrade straight in the eyes, Sherlock settled back into his position of his legs curled up to his chest and coat thrown over his shoulders. He wasn't going to leave John anytime soon. Fixing his eyes back on the heart monitor and matching it with his breath, Sherlock relaxed back into his chair and readied himself for another day.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock's neck hurt.

This was the only thing he was aware of for the first few moments after waking.

And, for those few moments, Sherlock didn't have much to worry about.

Until, of course, he realized he was in a hospital.

Sherlock jumped out of his chair and immediately regretted it- blood rushed to his head and his vision blurred.

Sherlock sat back down and glanced about the room, and his eyes rested on John.

The injured man was stirring in his sleep. His eyes were moving frantically around behind his eyelids, and tiny groans were escaping from his lips.

Sherlock scraped his chair across the floor, leaving a long black mark in his attempt to be immediately closer to John.

"John?" Sherlock muttered, his voice hoarse, grating against the silence of the room.

John's eyelids flickered and then opened. He stared straight ahead for a moment before focusing on Sherlock's face.

"Sh...Sherlock?" John murmured. He reached his hand out and grabbed Sherlock's clenched fist. His eyes scanned Sherlock's face, and knit his eyebrows into a frown. "What's wrong? Why do you look like that?"

"I'm fine, John."

"No, you're not. You feel bad about something."

Sherlock felt his heart twinge. Of course John would be lying on a hospital bed close to death's door, and the first thing he worries about is Sherlock's feelings.

"I'm okay, John."

John sighed and rolled his eyes. "God, I know what this is. You think this is all your fault, don't you."

Sherlock looked down and didn't answer.

John allowed a small smile to grace his face, but grimaced and touched the scar that ran across his face just as Sherlock was looking up.

Sherlock frowned. "Should I call the nurse?"

John gave him a fond look and shook his head tiredly. "You should have done that as soon as I woke up, stupid."

 OoOoOoO

John awoke coughing.

He had been making remarkable progress in the past few days- waking up every few hours, talking clearly, and being able to move the muscles that weren't tightly wrapped in bandages.

However, it seemed that was a temporary break from reality.

John's throat felt like it was trying to rip itself apart- he struggled to inhale between bone-rattling coughs.

When John finally emerged from his fit, he laid back onto the pillows and sighed, looking up at the concerned Sherlock and rubbing his broken ribs painfully.

"What a terrible way to wake up," John murmured.

Sherlock just frowned and stared at John.

"What? Is there something on my face?"

"You're all red. I think you have a fever."

"Bollocks," John sighed.

Sherlock raised a hand and placed it on John's forehead. "I'm calling the nurse."

"No, I'm fi-" John's complaint was cut off by another series of hacking coughs.

When John had finished, he opened his bleary eyes to find an empty room.

"Sher- Sherlock-" John called, his voice catching. He felt panic rising in his chest, as though the past weeks had all been a dream and he hadn't been rescued and he was lost in his mind-

Sherlock swooped into the room, a nurse at his tail. John tried to relax back into his bed, but wouldn't allow Sherlock's hand to leave his while the nurse was checking him over.

 

OoOoOoO

 

John found himself in constant pain, even when he was asleep. His dreams were filled with looming faces and guns pressed to his head and knives held to his throat. He always awoke in a cold sweat with his fists clenched. However, Sherlock was always quick to pull him out of the trance.

Though John didn't want to admit it, he needed Sherlock. He needed Sherlock like trees need air, like computers need power. But Sherlock needed to take care of himself- he couldn't hide the way John could feel his ribs when they curled up together in John's weaker moments, or how hard it was for the detective to stand up quickly or carry things that were not very heavy at all.

They needed each other like two planets quickly orbiting each other, about to collide.


End file.
